Reverend Rory and Policeman Pond
by Metronomeblue
Summary: AU where Rory is a priest, Amy is actually police. After a brutal triple murder, DS Amy Pond crashes headlong into the life of Reverend Rory Williams. At first, neither of them think much of it. But there's just something that keeps bringing them back together... Amy/Rory, possible Whouffle, Ten/Rose.
1. Into The Wild

Detective Sergeant Amelia Pond was having one hell of a day. It began (or at least she thought it did) with a triple murder in the basement of the local hospital. In reality, her day probably started at 5 A.M, when she was woken up by her mobile ringing right next to her ear. She fell out of bed, scrambled for the phone, answered it, and spit hair out of her mouth.  
I regret to say that the rest of her day went just as badly, with the possible exception of the ten minutes between 11:34 and 11:45 in the morning. What happened in those ten minutes was a turning point in the life of DS Amelia Pond, and would begin a most curious and mutually beneficial friendship.  
What happened in those ten minutes was that Amelia met Rory.

~*~*~/*/~*~*~

Reverend Rory Williams wasn't having a wonderful day either. His alarm woke him at 7:30, as usual. He got the newspaper, as usual. He poured a bowl of cereal, as usual. He turned on the news. The crime correspondent was talking about a murder, just two streets over. Rory put down the newspaper. They showed photographs of all three victims, and Rory began to feel sick.  
He knew these people. They came to morning mass every Sunday. A mother, a father, a son. And now they were dead. People weren't used to murders in Leadworth, you see, and as they were such a small town, everybody was quite close. Rory especially enjoyed getting to know his parishioners. He took a deep breath. He cleaned out the bowl of cereal.  
And then Rory went to work, because that was how Rory was.

~*~*~*/~*/~*~*~

Amy got to the scene at 5:57, and had to elbow past a few annoying bystanders. She was holding three cups of take-away coffee and a raspberry danish, so this was no easy feat. She tossed the danish easily at the Constable manning the yellow tape, calling to him, "Here Eleven. When'd you get here?" She was still moving, eyes fixed on the cellar doors.

"Four-ish," he called back, nibbling on the end of his pastry. "Is there a bird in my ear?" Amy blinked for a moment, zoned out.

"Huh, what? No. Take your pills, Eleven." She kept walking, still musing on what she'd find at the end of the stairs.

"Press here yet?" She asked, handing the second coffee cup to the tall, scruffy Inspector at the mouth of the doors.

"No, but they will be." He took a sip, staring pensievely down at a blood stain. "You think we should call twelve in?" Amy cocked her head for a moment, absently thinking that the blood stain looked like a bit like a rabbit, before shaking her head.

"Triple murder? Nah. I wouldn't call anyone until we reach serial killer." He nodded, and she started down the stairs. "Oh! And Ten," He looked back down at her. "Get Eleven to find next-of-kin. I don't think anyone's done it yet."

The basement was cold and lit with yellow bulbs. The floor was dusty beneath her black shoes, and Amy figured it was probably some combination of sand and sawdust. It was clumped red and purple around the bodies. Each one seemed to have had their head nearly removed, but instead of leaving it at that, the killer had tilted their heads at such an angle that they'd bleed more slowly. Amy winced as Martha tilted one so she could see the severed spinal cord.

"Who would do this?" She asked, stepping carefully around a pool of blood.

"No clue," Donna shrugged, fiddling with a lollipop. Amy grimaced.

"How can you eat that in here? Isn't it unsanitary?" Martha flashed a smug smile at Donna.

"I said so, but she wouldn't listen."

"Press are here," Ten dropped in to gasp out. Donna strode confidently up the stairs after allowing Ten to dispense some sage advice to Amy.

"Go talk to family and friends. And remember, poke old ladies with sticks before you pronounce the cause of death." Donna spirited him away after that, and Amy and Martha had the wholly unpleasant task of of being alone in a creepy basement with three dead bodies and a lot of blood.

"Cause of Death was decapitation," Martha noted, and Amy decided taking notes might be the best course of action as her two superiors were currently pulling the clown act to keep the media away from the bodies. "Severed spinal cord and esophagus, spine fractured but intact... I'd say the killer used a large knife to sever the head, then their hands to pull it back." She shook her head, and Amy did her best not to wince. "I'll know more after post-mortem."

"Thanks, Marth." Amy said, relieved to leave. "See you later."

"You too," she replied vacantly, still stuck in her bodies.

~*/~*/~*/~*/~

"So I got next-of-kin and names from Eleven," Donna began in the middle, striding calmly over to her desk. "And apparently our victims' names were Sally Nightingale, her husband Larry, and their son Billy." Ten allowed a sudden pained look come across his face.

"What is it? Did you know them?" He nodded, and Donna laid her hand on his shoulder. Amy sighed.

"They were, um, they used to live next-door to me. They were lovely people, ran a video shop." Donna nodded, absorbing this.

"Amybe you should take the day off," she suggested. "Come back in the morning tomorrow."

"I'll do next-of-kin," Amy said quickly, eager to relieve the workload of her now-solemn friend.

"Thanks, and ask if there's anyone else we oughta talk to, yeah?" Amy nodded, tucking her hair back into it's bun.

She left the police station at 10:26. The most remarkable thing to happen that day to Amelia Pond would happen at 11:39, and it would begin with a rubber duck. Larry's sister, Kathy, lived at number 21 west Brookglen Street, and as Amy approached the door, she made note of several spare keys hidden (very badly) in the bushes.

"Kathy Nightengale? Amy Pond, I'm with the police." She held up her badge, and the woman seemed completely mystified as to why Amy was there.

"I'm sorry, why are you here?" Amy frowned and tucked her badge in her pocket.

"Didn't- weren't you called?" Kathy smiled and shook her head.

"About what?"

Ten minutes later, Amy was retrieving a second box of tissues from the hall closet when a bin of small rubber animals fell all over her. The crash must have been loud enough to hear from the sitting room, because Kathy's sniffling was coming from the doorway instead of a distance.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to-" Kathy shook her head again.

"Don't bother. I've been keeping those for the Reverend for god knows how long." She sniffled again, and pointed waveringly at the bin. "He's someone you should talk to. Reverend Williams. They went to his church." Amy nodded and profferred the box of tissues. Kathy took three more and blew her nose.

And so it was that at 11:29 Amy was making her way up the street to Leadworth's one and only church. It was surrounded by trees, and there was a cobblestone drive leading up to it. It was rather pretty, and Amy found herself remembering her visits to the church throughout her childhood. She forgot to keep walking, and a sudden impact to the back of her head statled her.

"Oh! Why hello," a voice came from behind her, and she turned to find herself face-to-face with a woman she'd never met before. This alone was strange, as Amy'd met mostly everyone in town, but the woman had an odd look about her, too. She was wearing stretch leggings and a long, loose shirt. She had very wide hazel eyes and a veritable halo of pale hair, and she gave Amy the oddest feeling. "I'm Professor River Song."

"Oh please not another one," Amy blurted.

"What was that?" The woman asked good-naturedly.

"I know a lot of Doctors and Professors, that's all." Amy smiled tightly. "Very sorry, do excuse me." She edged around the blonde woman and dashed up the remaining drive.

It may have been rude, she supposed, but, Amy mused as she peeked around the heavy wooden door, she did have a job to do.

"Hello," a voice called behind her for the second time in as many minutes, and Amy swiveled, professional police bun finally coming undone after so much stress. Her first impression consisted mainly of duckling-down hair, dark clothes and a white collar.

~*~*/~*/~*~

He was drawn from his office by the skitter of loose gravel on wood and the click of the door opening. He was greeted with the strange sight of a policewoman peeking timidly around the doorframe of the Nave like a small child. She was tall, and wearing a rather short skirt, and he found himself questioning her legitimacy based solely on that. That outfit could not be very comfortable to run in, but her shoes were thick-soled and matte black, and looked as though they had been dipped in sawdust.

"Hello," he called, and she let out a truly frightened squeak and spun around. This dislodged her hat, and with it her hair, which fell around her shoulders like waves of copper or butterscotch. Her eyes were wide and green, and had the same look seen on the face of someone about to hit you over the head with a frying pan.

"Hi." She blinked.

"Hello," he repeated. "I'm Rory. Reverend Rory WIlliams." At this, she relaxed and smiled, pulling a badge from her pocket.

"Amy Pond, I'm with the police." He nodded, remembering the sketchy and incomplete news report from that morning. "I was just wondering if I could have a minute of your time?"

"Of course, is there anything I can do to help?" She smiled wistfully and shook her head. "What is it?"

"It's nothing, it's just- everyone says that." He smiled back at her.

"I mean it, though." And at this his smile faded. "The Nightengales were good people."

"They were," she agreed.

"You knew them?"

"No, but a friend of mine did." Her phone rang, and she grimaced and made an apologetic gesture towards her pocket. "Pond. Yeah- Eleven, what are you doing? No, I'm at the church. Why do you ask-?" She went dead silent for a moment, biting her lip. "Oh no." She looked at the phone as whoever was on the other end hung up. "Oh no no no."

"What is it?" His mind scrambled, thinking of another murder, a house fire, an accident. Instead, what she said was:

"Eleven's coming." She swept down the aisle, shoving her phone into her pocket.

"Eleven?" He raised an eyebrow and followed her. "Who's Eleven, and why is his name a number?"

"You'd never believe me. Never."

"Try me," he quipped dryly, and she laughed a little.

"There have been twelve Dr. John Smiths working at Leadworth Police. Twelve, all with the same name. So instead of calling them all 'John' all the time, we call them by the order in which they came." Throughout all this she was rummaging through one of the psalm books in a pew near the front.

"Wow." She nodded at his exclamation. "Why is it bad that Eleven's coming- and why are you doing that?" He asked as she tossed the psalm book at him. She turned back to him and scrunched up her face.

"Eleven's a bit-" The door flew open and slammed into the wall, a group of men in blue scrubs marching in. The policewoman closed her eyes resignedly. "Mad."

"Hello Vicar!" Eleven called, skipping over. Amy hid her face in her palms and whispered to herself. "Hello Amelia!"

"I don't know you." She mumbled through her fingers.

"Of course you do!" He turned to Rory and slapped his palms over the poor man's cheeks. "Rory my dear boy! Would you like to help solve a crime?" Amy looked up, horrified and frantically made slashing motions over her throat at Rory, who was terribly confused. "Do you give us permission to examine yoru innermost secrets? WIll you let us strip this building for evidence?"

"Sure?" Rory tried, and Eleven exploded with joy.

"Marvelous! Fantastic! Geronimo!" Amy shook her head.

"You shouldn't have done that," she said to Rory as Eleven and his minions became a whirlwind in the church.

"Why not?"

"That's permission enough to search this place. They must be having the time of their lives." Rory looked over at her, and the small smile on her lips was directed at him.

"Really, though, is there anything I can do to help?"

"Did they mention anyone new to you? Anything suspicious?"

"They were excited about their new house. They did mention their new neighbors several times. And there have been people hanging about outside the church," he mentioned thoughtfully.

"Thanks."

"I'm glad to help, really."

It was 11:45 on a Thursday morning, and Amelia Pond's life had just taken an abrupt left turn.

~*/~*/~*/~

"So, what's this?" Amy asked, pointing to a squiggle on the whiteboard that vaguely resembled an umbrella.

"That's a twenty," Eleven said through a mouthful of fish finger.

"Of course it is," Amy muttered, erasing and rewriting it. Thus far, they had a rather empty board of suspects. Much to her chagrin, Amy had tacked Reverend Williams' photo in their suspect circle, but moments later, Eleven had pulled it down, cheerily affirming that Reverend Williams very likely had nothing to do with the murders, and that there was no evidence in his or the Nightengales' house to say otherwise.

"Pond!" Ten called from the hallway, "Go talk to the neighbors! Donna's got the media by the hair. There'll be nobody to interfere! Oh, and pick up the priest, too will you? He might be able to point out our suspect."

"Aaaaaand off I go," Amy muttered, spinning her chair in a circle before jumping up to get her coat. "Into the wild."

On her way out, Amy was stopped by a vicious and unceasing honking from a despicably stylish (yet undeniably ugly) car.

"Are you gettin' in then?" came the expected shout from inside it, and Amy, stifling a smile, slid into the passenger seat.

"Hey Twelve. I thought you were in Edinburgh?"

"I heard you interviewed a priest and Eleven went nutter again. Do we have to pay damages this time?"

"No, although we should probably apologize. Last I saw of his office it was a burning wreck." Which was a lie. It was very upended, and possibly unusable, but nothing was burning. Poor Reverend Williams had been floored already by the murders, and sticking him with Eleven felt a bit much.

"Why, is he rich?"

"Not that I know of."

"Is he influential? Attractive? Why should we apologize?" twelve snorted.

"Because we ruined his day?" Amy answered.

"Three people he knew are dead. I think his day was already ruined."

"What on Earth is that?" Rory asked no one in particular, watching as what appeared to be a midnight-blue Chevrolet Impala hurtled down the street, making an odd whooshing noise that Rory was fairly sure it wasn't supposed to be making. "What on Earth-?" he asked again, as it screeched to a halt next to him. Amy flung open the backseat door.

"We call it the TARDIS." She smiled.

"Get in, Vicar. We're going mystery-solving!" There was an older scottish man in the front seat, and he seemed rather impatient. Rory debated for a moment before deciding to get in.

"What's a TARDIS?" He asked Amy.

"Tacky-Ass Rubbish Dump of Irresistible Splendour," she replied quickly. "It's horrible, but you can't help but love it."

"I suppose so," Rory sighed, settling into the back seat.

TBC


	2. A New Day

A/N: And so we meet a few of our suspects, Ten meets someone ominous, and Eleven gets a terrible shock.

It was 3 o'clock in the afternoon, and Rory Williams was not having a pleasant day. Three of his parishioners had been murderd, his church had been ransacked by a madman named after a number, and he was being kidnapped by a red-headed policewoman and a scottish rogue in a blue car. He felt like any moment now, the floor was going to drop out from under him and his seat was going to grind along the asphalt until he was nothing but a skull cap and some hair. (For Rory had a rather vivid imagination.) But alas, Rory would live for many more days, and on this one in particular he'd have a chance to change a few lives.

"So you call his car a... tacky dump of splendour?" He asked, looking curiously up into the front seat, where Amy was perched beside the cantankerous Scottish man from before. Now he thought about it, Amy was Scottish, too. Perhaps, Rory thought, they ought to start a club.

"Only because it is," Amy yawned, tipping her seat back so that her head was right next to Rory. "It's fabulous and grungy. It's soft and leathery. It's soft grunge." She smiled and tipped her police hat over her face.

"Eleven's been rubbin' off on you. You've gone to the dark side," the Scot muttered darkly.

"Shut up Twelve," Amy called, sitting up and leaving her chair down. "Eleven rubs off on everyone. He's made of cat hair."

"He really has rubbed off on you," Twelve marveled disgustedly. "Nothing you say makes sense anymore."

"Why do you hate Eleven so much, anyway?" Amy asked, and Rory was a great deal more interested in petty gossip than any self-respecting vicar should be. Really. He should stop all this listening in business. But how? He was in a car, and there was no divider between them. Obviously, he couldn't help it. No, really.

"Same name, why else?"

"That's a lie and you know it. Tell me the truth." Amy reached around and pulled her seat back up.

"Why should I? Vicar McTwit here's listening in." Rory blushed at this, and Amy had the good grace not to comment on it.

"He's a priest, he'll never tell. Come on, Twelve."

"Not today, Pond." Something had changed in his voice, and Amy didn't ask again. They remained silent for a moment, and Rory suddenly realized they'd never told him what he was doing there.

"Um, I hate to be a bother, but why exactly am I here?" He asked, and both of them looked back over their shoulders to look at him.

"You knew them. They told you things. We're going to talk to their neighbors, so maybe you can point out someone they mentioned. At least, that's what I was told," Amy said all this at rapid speed, and Rory wasn't certain he'd caught all of it.

"Oh. And here I was thinkin' it was jus' because you fancied the poor lad," Twelve growled in his usual blunt manner. Amy rolled her eyes and crossed her arms.

"What are you, my dad?"

"Is he?" Rory asked, and Amy laughed. He smiled, but pretended to be serious nontheless. "What? I legitimately couldn't tell. You're both scottish, and you act like- oh stop laughing."

She couldn't. He was a wee bit smug, and a part of him counted off Hail Marys for pride in his head.

Then the car stopped, and the whiplash snapped her out of it.

"We're here," Twelve said grimly, and Amy shot him a look.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious. Do you really need to make everything sound so ominous?"

"We're solving a murder, not a math problem," was the reply she got.

Rory emerged from the car to find himself in front of a tall, creaking house surrounded by similar tall, creaking houses.

"Come on, Rev!" Amy called to him from a porch. "We've got suspects to interview!"

They went first to the house on the immediate left of the Nightengales' residence. The man who opened the door was of average height, with scruffy blonde hair and brown eyes creased at the edges with lines from too many smiles.

"Hey, how can I help you?" Amy smiled back and raised her open badge.

"Amy Pond, I'm with the police. May we come in?"

"Well yeah, I suppose so." He looked around the door. "It's a bit of a mess here, though. My girlfriend's moving in, so there's lots of clutter, sorry." He kicked a box out of their way as they came in. "I'm Harry. Harry Saxon."

"Who is it, Harry?" A woman came down the stairs, a pistol in hand.

"Erm, maybe you should-" Harry began, and Rory pointed dumbly at the stairs, his mind obviously, frantically, moving between 'gun' and 'crazy scottish redhead who isn't doing anything'. Amy stared blandly up the stairs at the blonde, who was still smiling obliviously at them all.

"Police," Harry pointed. The woman nodded, the situation clicking in her head, and she dropped the gun in a box, continuing on to the next room.

"Gun?" Rory asked Amy, who looked down confusedly for a moment, then laughed.

"Oh it's not loaded. And the safety's on."

"Oh," Rory chuckled nervously.

"We're fine." Amy patted his shoulder. "Now let's go talk to some potential murderers."

"Is this how you spend all your days?" Rory complained as she dragged him into the next room.

"Most of 'em." Amy plunked down on a red armchair across from the couple, who were seated awkwardly on a loveseat. "Sooooo... Mr. Saxon and Ms?"

"Ripley. Lucy Ripley. I work up at Canary Wharf. What is this about?" She looked worried, her boyfriend didn't.

"Have you heard about the Nightengales?" Amy asked gingerly, and this hit home. Lucy nodded, and Harry's arm grew tighter around her shoulders. "They were murdered last night, all three with their heads nearly cut off." Saxon made a face, and twitched. Lucy put her hand over her mouth as though afraid she might throw up. "I have to ask, where were you last night between 11 o'clock at night and 2 o'clock in the morning?"

"Here, at home." Harry leaned forward, now defensive and offended. "Are you asking if either of us killed them? Is that what you're doing?" Lucy put her hand over his, and he leaned back.

"Unfortunately, I have to ask. It's my job, Mr. Saxon." Amy scribbled something down on her pad, and Rory stood awkwardly in the corner. "What did you know about the Nightengales?"

"They were good people," Lucy said slowly, "Larry was a movie buff. Sally- was it Sally?- she worked at the vet's."

"Have you seen or heard anything suspicious lately?" Amy asked, still scribbling.

"No," Harry said, looking questioningly at Lucy, "I haven't. Luce?"

"Well..." She bit her lip. "There was... I did see something." A strange look came over her face then. "Someone had graffitied theri shed. 'Bad Wolf', it said." She looked distinctly uncomfortable then, and Amy closed her book.

"Thank you, you've both been a great help. If you think of or see anything, anything at all, just call." Rory waved goodbye.

"So?" Amy asked as they walked down the stairs.

"So what? I didn't say a word the whole time. Why am I even here?"

"You're a people person. A perceptive people person," Amy explained. "You see things I don't." She stopped and turned. Rory stopped short, and they were nearly face-to-face, only inches apart. "So, do you think he murdered them?" Her eyes were a steady, blazing green, fixed on his as though she couldn't look away. There was determination there, and restlessness, and a bit of amusement.

"Are you serious?" He whispered. He didn't know how, but his hand had ended up on her shoulder, and they were very close now, as though she was telling him a secret. And maybe, he realized, maybe she was. "Is this a test?"

"Do you think he killed them?" She asked again, a small smile widening her mouth.

"No," Rory said finally. "No I don't."

"Nor me," Amy said casually, walking again. He had to jog a few steps to catch up. "Did you see how they reacted when I mentioned how they died? Too squeamish for that sort of murder."

"As opposed to what? The nice kind?" Rory asked sarcastically. Amy nodded, though, playing along as much as she wasn't.

"Yeah. I mean, what's with all the cruel and unusual punishment? Why can't people just shoot each other like they used to?" Rory's eyebrows were now rising quickly towards his hairline.

"Wow."

"Come on, preacher man. Next stop is..." She checked her phone, the screen displaying a truly impressive list of names and addresses. "Number 19." The house was a two-story victorian confection, lacy-bordered porch and all. The door, however was a bright, deep cerulean, A nineteen nailed on with the knocker, which was shaped like a snake devouring it's own tail. Amy lifted it twice before the door swung open. The woman behind it was tall, with an impressive dandelion puff of hair and a knowing smirk.

"Oh, lovely seeing you again," she said to Amy, who promptly muttered something and grit her teeth.

"Pond," She said flatly. "From the police. We're here about the Nightengales." When she ended there, Rory stepped forward.

"If it's not inconvenient, may we come in?"

"Oh, of course," the woman said genially, and stepped aside. Amy flashed him an indecipherable look, and stepped into the house as though embarking on a dangerous journey. The woman sat them on her couch, and then promptly left.

"Hold on just a moment, and I'll get you some tea." The woman said, and darted into the kitchen.

"So," Rory cleared his throat. "What's your problem with her?"

"I don't have a problem." She sighed angrily, "What are you talking about?"

"You act like she's done something terrible to you, you didn't ask to come in. When you did, you acted like you were going to fall over dead." She glared at him. "You've got a problem." She was silent for a few minutes, clasping and unclasping her hands and letting her hair fall around her face.

"She gives me this weird feeling," she said finally, pointedly not-looking at him, and instead choosing to stare at her knees. "Like she's not done anything to me, but she will one day and it'll be horrible." She fell back into the couch cushions and looked sideways at him. "Is that stupid?" He took a moment to think, and where that might've offended her if someone else had done it, there was only a sort of appreciation that he was actually thinking it through. He let out a sigh and fell back too, to look her in the eye.

"No. I think it's instinct." She gave him a wry smile.

"What? Not going to say 'God's guidance' or something?"

"I can't tell you if it is or isn't any more than you can tell me," Rory shrugged. "but if I did, would you listen?" Amy's smile became a little smaller, a little more thoughtful.

"To you, I might." She bit her lip. "You seem like a good sort, Reverend Williams." He smiled back and tried not to think how much of the bad sort she must've known.

"Thank you Detective Sergeant Pond," he replied, with a small bow. She laughed, and the woman from before sweot in with a tray. Amy immediately sobered and straightened up. Rory swallowed and leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.

"Tea," the woman said, with that same catlike smile. "For you." Amy stayed stone-faced while Rory thanked her.

"Professor River Song, correct?" She nodded, and Amy made a note. "Where were you between 11 and 2 o'clock last night?" River never stopped smiling.

"Here, alone." She took a smug sip of tea.

"And can anyone attest to that?" Amy asked, voice emotionless and efficient.

"No." Rory raised an eyebrow. She had no alibi, no witness. All she needed was motive.

"Have you heard or seen anything suspicious lately?" River thought for a moment before shaking her head.

"No. Nothing." At this Amy stood, and Rory a moment after.

"Thank you, Professor. We'll be back." She walked calmly from the house, but the moment she was off the front steps she was running back to the car. Rory sighed and jogged after.

"Twelve? I'm going back to the station. Yes, I am stealing your car." Rory saw her pulling on her seatbelt in the driver's seat, and she beckoned silently for him to sit beside her, all the while talking to her curmudgeony colleague. "No, I have a key. Yes, I stole your keys and made spares. Yes I have your house key." She made a face at Rory. "Why is that weird? You have all my keys." She nodded in agreement. "Well yes, except for my filing cabinet, true. yeah, okay. Bye. You too." She closed her phone and put into her pocket, smiling at Rory. "Twelve is asking around the rest, and we're researching Professor Song and Mr. Saxon."

"We?" Rory asked, surprised.

"What, were you expecting to be let off the case so soon?" When he nodded, she laughed. "Oh no, Reverend. When you're on a case, you're on it 'til the end."

"Til the end..." He mused, as Amy sent them speeding far away from this quiet neighborhood, and back to the place of the dead and despairing.

It was now six o'clock in the afternoon, and Eleven had been out on Forensics since one. Ten was being broody and attractive in the corner, going through that of the Nightengales' mail that had been marked as interesting. Rory and Amy had tacked up Harold Saxon and Professor River Song on their suspect board, and were now going through anything in the station they could get their (very persuasive) hands on for mentions of River or Harry.

"I'm going home," Ten announced, pushing out his chair noisisly. "Be back tomorrow, yeah?" Amy and Rory nodded, Rory finally asking a question that had been needling him for awhile.

"So if that's Ten, and Eleven searched my church, and Twelve is that Scottish guy with the blue car, what happened to Nine?"

"We don't talk about Nine." Amy said, drawing Xs through a word search hidden stealthily between the covers of a manila folder.

"Why not?" Rory asked, now slightly worried.

"We just don't."

"Why? What happened to him?"

"Reverend." She looked him in the eye. "Don't ask those questions."

"Okayyy then." He went back to his folder, questions unanswered.

Ten exchanged hellos with Eleven on the way out.

"Oh, hello Vicar!" Eleven called, ever-smiling from the door. His hands were full of Forensics reports, and his hair was even more unruly than it's usual hedge-squashed-down-with-gel look. "Amy, you're looking radiant!" And then, all the papers in his hands fell to the floor. He was pale, trembling. His brown eyes wide and electric with fear and pain. His fingers were loose, numb, and they hung useless at his sides.

"Eleven?" Amy asked gently, standing slowly and making her way over to him. "Doctor?" he swallowed and nodded at the suspect board.

Rory followed the path of his eyes to the pictures, focusing on one in particular.

"Professor River Song?" He looked back at Amy and Eleven. "Do you know her, Doctor?"

"River Song? That's not her name. That's-that's not her name." He sank into Amy's now-vacant chair. "Her name is Melody Pond."

Amy blinked and twisted her head like she was confused as to how she should react.

"Pond?" Rory asked him. "Like Amelia Pond?"

"That's what I thought at first, yes. But I doubt you're related." Eleven gave a shaky laugh. "Well, I thought that too, but I suppose anything's possible now."

"Why do you say that?" Amy asked, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder and handing him a cup of tea with the other. He shook his head and she pulled a chair over. "Eleven, who was she?" he shook his head again, swallowing his tea, but after a moment he opened his mouth.

"She was my wife," he said quietly, incredulously. "She was my wife, and she was dead."

"I never knew you were married," Amy whispered. "I'm sorry, I never- I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," he laughed bitterly, "She obviously never wanted naything to do with me. Why should I care?" Amy was taken aback, and Rory was seized with a sudden and intense urge to find Professor Song and make her see what she'd done.

"Because you loved her," was all Amy could think of.

"Why did I, though?" was her answer. "She was a liar, from day one, and I knew it. I just never thought there'd ever be a lie so big as this. You say she's a Professor?"

"Archaeology," Rory supplied helpfully.

"Figures," Eleven sighed dismally. "Do you really think she killed them?" He asked Amy.

"Do you think she could?" She replied. He thought for a moment, staring into the depths of his tea.

"I honestly have no idea."

~*/~*/~*/~ Doctor John Smith (the Tenth) was waiting for the train. The platform was unusually deserted, and the quiet was rather nice, punctuated only by echoing yells from other platforms and the rattle and rush of trains passing by. He was absorbed in the contemplation of this rare, peaceful state, when a train hit him.

Not literally, of course. Metaphorically.

She was shadowy, pale hair falling straight around an emotionless face and deep blue leather jacket zipped like armor around her. She had startlingly keen brown eyes, seeming to take everything in without having to move much. SO when she bumped into him, at first he thought it was strange.

"Pardon me, sorry," he mumbled, still stuck in a basement with Sally and Larry Nightengale and their eight-year-old son. Instead of continuing on, however, she wrapped an arm around his waist and rose up on her toes.

"You've been noticed, Doctor Smith," she whispered in his ear, voice carrying a smile and a shadow that would haunt him through many sleepless nights. A slim, cold hand pushed a crumpled piece of paper into his hand, and it was only when he saw the back of her head he realized she was walking away.

He looked down, then up, completely disoriented. He unfolded the paper, smoothed it out- and stopped.

In thin, straight letters it said BAD WOLF.

Doctor John Smith missed one train. But he got on a very different one.

"I'm going home," Eleven muttered, at nine o'clock that night. "I've had enough of this."

"See you tomorrow," Amy said, absentmindedly putting her tea mug down on Rory's stray hand. He'd fallen asleep an hour ago.

"Yeah. Seeya."

Eleven was lacking his usual manic demeanor when he unlocked his front door, not in the least part due to his long-dead-undead-archealogist-muder-suspect-ex-wif e.

"Oh, John!" Clara's bodiless arm waved from under the stairs. "I was just-" THUNK- "looking for the-" CLANK- "Blasted pots," she muttered defeatedly, abandoning both search and sentence, and retreating from the cavern.

"Hello Clara," he sighed, tension and anger fading away.

"You don't look very good. What happened?" He took both of her hands in his, and looked, sadly, into her eyes.

"Melody's not dead, she's got a whole new life, and she might have killed three people," he said, calmly and quietly. Clara's eyes were wide for a moment, and then, with a trace of deep and irrefutable hatred, she mustered her voice.

"That bitch."

Eleven rolled his eyes and smiled.

The next morning, Rory woke up, papers sticking to his cheek, hand curled around someone else's tea mug and a blanket draped haphazardly over his shoulders. He stood slowly, tucking his white collar back over his shirt. His limbs were stiff, awkward from sleeping that position, but it was a good ache, ground deep into his bones by hard work and long focus. He took a few steps forward and stretched a moment.

He smelled coffee, and followed his nose around the corner. There was a break room, with windows along all walls spreading golden light over the floor. Amy was standing in front of a coffeemaker, red hair tangled and careless. She seemed limned in light, glowing from the inside. He walked up behind her, grabbing a mug from the rack nearest. She looked up and smiled at him.

"A new day, Sergeant Pond," he said, voice soft and smile knowing. He held up his mug.

"A new day," she agreed, clinking her mug against his.

A/N: So that's that. Chapter two. What did you think? I'd really like to hear your feedback, as this story is a bit of new territory for me. Thank you again for the favorites and alerts. You're lovely people. 


	3. Interlude in Eleven

A/N: So, the next few chapters are going to be the same day as told by several different people, with flashbacks (We get the story of how Melody and Eleven got together, and also how she "died" yay.) and/or flash-forwards (Amy and Rory's chapters will span a month each.) Ten's will be over the course of three hours, and River gets a chapter about her being a nuisance.

~/*/~/*/~

Doctor John Smith the Eleventh was dreaming. It was a very unpleasant dream, filled with grotesque red bulls surrounding the station. He rolled over in his sleep, fingers unconciously weaving into Clara's hair. She twitched, and the dream changed. Now he was leaving the house for work, kissing Clara goodbye. The day passed in a blur, just a prelude to the main event. He came home to find the door ajar, unlocked. He had forgotten to lock it on his way out. He drew his gun, was quiet coming in. There was a group of men and women surrounding a figure, a woman, bound on her knees, a black hood over her head.

They demanded he drop the gun. He didn't, kept it pointed at them. They pulled the hood off, and it was Melody. Melody, pale and afraid and begging, pleading for him to save her. Then a gunshot rang out, harsh and loud. She fell sideways, blood coursing over her face, melting it, changing it, darkening her hair, straightening it. Soon it wasn't Melody lying on the floor dead, but Clara. He dropped the gun, dropped to his knees.

He woke up on Friday morning to the sound of sizzling saucepans and muffled cursing. These were familiar sounds, but not ones he should be hearing. Still a bit stuck in his dream, it took him a moment to remember why. Clara did her baking in the late morning, when- on weekdays- he was at work.

"John?" And speak of the devil, Clara's face popped around the doorframe. She had smudges of flour and a smear of butter grease on her cheeks, and from what he could see, her hands were much worse. "Oh, yes, you're up. Donna said to come in whenever you feel like it, but not to push it because you feel late or something like that."

"I'm late?!" He yelped, throwing off the covers and dashing to his bureau.

"Yes," Clara rolled here eyes, "by about four hours. I just said, she told me to tell you not to worry. Quit worrying."

"I can't," hissed Eleven, trying and failing to put on a straight tie. He looked at it for a second before throwing it over his shoulder and expertly fastening a bow tie around his neck. "I am on this case. Just because my undead ex-wife might have killed three people, everyone thinks I'm going to have a meltdown."

"You sort of already did," She noted amusedly as he put his suspenders on backwards. He shot her a look and took them off. She left the doorway and helped him put them on the right way around. They now had flour smeared all over them, but he didn't mind. His fingers trembled, and she caught them when they brushed hers. They exchanged a glance, understanding and fear and shame.

"Your tie's crooked," she said, touching it with gentle fingertips.

"You say that every day, but you never fix it," he replied quietly.

"I like it crooked." She pressed a kiss to his mouth, fleeting and fearful, the same as every morning. "Come home."

"Always."

He locked the door behind him.

The sun was bright and shining, and Eleven decided to walk to work. The sidewalk was smooth, yet rough. It reminded him of sandpaper, silver sandpaper. He scuffed his shoes, feeling like a small child, liking the sound. He didn't think about Melody. River. Melody. His Mel.

He tried not to think of her. He didn't succeed.

He didn't succeed at much that involved Melody Pond.

They had met that way, with his failure and her amusement.

~/*/~

London Metropolitan University, May 23rd, 2002:

"Are you leaving or staying?" She asked, with a coy smile. He was still upset that she'd witnessed his utter humiliation, but at least this way she would understand his bad mood.

"Oh, er, leaving," he answered, flustered, packing his bag haphazardly and trying to process the fact that he had been turned down yet again. He had so much work as it was, he really didn't need to fill out more applications. All of his things were probably crushed now, but he was trying not to care.

"Hey, slow down." She chastised him amusedly, and her voice was like ribbon. Her hand rested firmly on his shoulder, and he turned to her.

"I can't, Mel. Gotta be somewhere," he tried to laugh it off, but he couldn't. They both knew he wasn't going anywhere.

~/*/~

He supposed it may have been her experience, her maturity. He was clever, John, smart and experienced in his areas, but when it came to Melody John was out of his league. John felt awkward, lanky like the teenager he was when he met her. He was suddenly vulnerable in a way he usually wasn't, young in a way he didn't like to be. Meldoy was... overwhelming. She had a flare in her, a compelling fire that drew the wild animals to its warmth. But outside of that she was all cold and darkness and wild, and John had known that from the moment he met her.

River Song. He sighed, breath ghosting out foggy and pale.

Melody Pond. Melody Smith. River Song.

What game was she playing?

~/*/~

He felt caught with Melody, consumed. He felt like a mouse fixed under a cat's claws, debating over whether or not that mouse trap would be enough to kill him before she began tearing him apart. Melody Pond was inevitable and vicious, and John Smith was sweet and small.

How they ever made it past the first date he'll never know. How they made it through the wedding, he's fairly certain, involved a great deal of alcohol and snickering.

Which isn't to say their relationship was unhappy. Far from it. Melody had a great deal fo fun reading off descriptions of obscure or ancient artifacts and having him guess what was what. He'd bring home a carton of eggs and they'd have breakfast for dinner. It wasn't all terror and compulsion, but John was beginning to feel like one of those people making excuses for abusive partners. Which was ridiculous, as Mel had done nothing to him.

It had been his mistake to get caught, to entangle himself with an older woman, to fall in love with her, to move to Russia and write dissertations on violent crime.

It was his mistake.

John Smith looked out his window and began considering that mouse trap.

~/*/~

He continued his walk, gathering his facade of careless non-sequiturs and odd questions, his shield of insanity and optimism. It was hard armor to shoulder, but it kept the others from worrying, kept them from getting too close or taking him too seriously.

It kept them safe as much as it did him, and John was fine with that.

~/*/~

He was never sure what clued him in first: the broken lock, or the blood.

All John really remembers is the red, spread over everything, blood strewn like paint over their living room. He remembers falling to his knees, remembers the fade to black and the hospital awakening.

He remembers the funeral, black and white and red.

Mostly he remembers the numbness that followed all that. It followed him, weighed on his shoulders and pressed him down until he broke. The guilt wasn't much better, and the hopelessness laughed at him.

It was only when he met Clara that he really woke up to the world again, a chatty, smirking brunette who seemed as out-of-place at a Dickens fair as a fish would in a fish bowl.

Somehow, Clara just... fit. In a way no one else ever had, not even Melody, she just wiggled her way through a crack into his heart and sat on it until she became a part of it.

Until she owned it.

~/*/~

John looked up, the station looming into cool shade above him, and sighed resignedly.

It was time to face Melody.

/~*~/

A/n: I'm sorry for the long wait! It took me awhile to really 'get' thsi chapter, but I promise I'll try to update more frequently from now on. With 60+ chapters planned out, it's going to be a hell of a ride. Thank you again for all the lovely favorites/reviews/follows! You are fabulous.


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